Lissa
Wilkins stared in disbelief at Rosa Macurdy, the Madrona Inn’s
breakfast cook, who stood before the front desk, rain dripping from
her curly gray hair, her long, spare form stooped under the weight of
a brown backpack. “There are spiders up there!”

“Hush!”
Rosa glanced furtively around, though at eleven-fifteen on a Friday
evening, Lissa couldn’t think who might be there to overhear. The
elderly guests who came year after year to the rustic inn and the
peace of Madrona Cove, were long since in bed. The younger ones who
came for fishing and fun were still at Chuck­les, Madrona Cove’s
favorite watering-hole and social center.

“Don’t
kill the messenger,” Rosa said. “I don’t want you to go up
there.” She pulled at the straps of the backpack, trying to remove
it. Lissa rushed out from behind the desk and caught the heavy
weight, easing it down Rosa’s back. “Reggie wants you to,” Rosa
added, shrugging her shoulders in obvious relief. “Reggie needs you
to.”

Reggie,
the inn’s handyman, was supposed to have put the CD player and
timers in the attic over Steve Jackson’s bed hours ago, while
Steve, the most unwanted guest the Madrona Inn’s staff had ever
dealt with, was at the bar across the street.